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What the medical world patronisingly refers to as ‘complications’ had set in. Opal died on Monday, May 15th, while I was in Bavaria at an online communications conference. We never even had a chance to talk, to say goodbye properly. The second operation had been her decision. She went into it with her customary optimism, aware of the risks but willing to take a chance. Perhaps it was the morphine that had made her so fey. I am ashamed to admit that my immediate grief was no more profound than that upon draining a particularly fine bottle of whiskey. Soon, though, I found myself nursing a curious emptiness far worse than the variety of hangover that simply does not want to get better. Death connects us, all races — it is the universal quantity. As Opal was keen on reminding me — and I always hear the words in the voice of Joni Mitchell — “Something’s lost, but something’s gained in living every day”. Bereavement was a revelation to me and, without irony, I thanked Opal for another new experience. The funeral was on a beautifully warm spring day. I arranged with the pastor for a tape to be played at the end of the service — John Martyn’s version of Over The Rainbow — knowing it would end in tears. As the casket left the chapel-of-rest on a conveyor belt, it wobbled alarmingly. Its movement was horribly vaudeville; like a prop in some cheesy conjuring trick. In faltering German, I read out the paragraph that Opal had placed in the mysterious envelope, written in hospital specially for this occasion: “Death belongs to life as does birth. It is not life’s enemy — we must learn to treat it as a friend. Now that I am gone, I shall try to give you a sign, something unambiguous, to let you know that there is a next stop after life. On that day you will hear from me again. I’ll wait for you all a while, somewhere close by. All is well.” All is well. At the grave-side my knees grew weak and I felt in danger of joining the casket. For a while I stood nearby, propped against a tree, but when some disinterested mourners began to slope off in the direction of the nearest watering-hole, I headed into the depths of the cemetery. I found The Cruel Countess, sitting on an isolated bench in the shadows near a lake haunted by flitting butterflies. Bulrushes hushed the grazing geese. Dragonflies daubed themselves on the afternoon: some red, some blue; darting, humming to the tune of the spring. She seemed to be staring at four fir trees in a row of diminishing height at the opposite side of the lake. She was not holding anyone by the hair; neither the boy nor the girl with the tortured expressions was anywhere to be seen. She looked so at home on her bench that it seemed more natural to talk to her than to the mourners at Opal’s grave side; each a stranger in their private grief. “Where are your two young friends?” “I am a sculpture. I am by no means obliged to answer sarcastic questions, you know.” Her voice was not as you might expect for a statue; it was warm and vaguely polyphonic, as if accompanied by a faint soprano boy choir; variations in a minor key. “I didn’t mean to be sarcastic. I’m in mourning.” “Death is in the nature of things. There is only a limited number of souls to go around, you know.” “It’s funny you should mention that, I thought it might be that way. I often hear a voice while I’m shaving or showering, or caught up in insecure, destructive thoughts. It cries, in a kind of yelled whisper, ‘Let me out! Get me out of here.’ Does that make any kind of sense to you?” The Cruel Countess crossed and uncrossed her legs, studied her non-existent wristwatch. “I don’t find it difficult to sympathise with your prisoner. You might at least have the common courtesy of introducing yourself to me.” “The name’s Sam Kite.” “Fate.” “Pleased to meet you.” It’s not every day you bump into Fate at the cemetery. “I’ve abandoned my search for the truth,” I said. "I’m now looking for a good fantasy. Any suggestions?” The Cruel Countess chuckled in the recesses of my Inside Head. “For the past few moments you’ve been talking to a statue. I’d say that wasn’t bad for a start. Let it come naturally, or you won’t feel the benefit.” “May I come back and see you again?” “I will be here. I shall decide in due course whether or not you see me.” *
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